Rihanna recently had her Instagram account deleted after posting one of the topless photos from her very racy, very stylish spread in Lui magazine earlier this month. Even though Instagram maintained it was an accident (who in their right mind would piss RiRi off on purpose?) and reinstated the account, it had still been wiped squeaky clean.
There hasn't been one day since then that I don't think about my breasts. The current ones, the old ones, the cancer. Breast breasts breasts. My whole life, centered around some hanging, bouncy body parts. Impossible to escape, especially now, during the month of October, BREAST CANCER AWARENESS MONTH.
It's all about context, the message seems to be. We need less sexualization of women's bodies (breasts in particular) and more acceptance of them as functional and natural. But the matter gets confusing is when you add in women like Paulina Gretzky, whose scantily clad body is all over Instagram in unmistakably sexy poses-- because she has freely chosen to put it there. Is she a feminist foe who is ensuring that generations of little girls will grow up objectified and not taken seriously by men? Or is her personal decision to celebrate her sexuality and glory in controlling her own image, critics (and Dad) be damned, actually a feminist move?
If you missed the first episode of The Bachelor Canada, then you missed all the boob talk. Boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs. Why is it that some women are so fascinated with whether or not another woman's breasts are "real" or "fake"? Is a potato stuffed with cheese no longer a potato? I rest my case.
This family's privacy has survived a princely pater familias reputed to have enjoyed rather frequent romps with ladies who were neither his sovereign nor his wife and a promiscuous princess married to the heir to the throne among other things. After such a history, a little blurry bare breastedness, shot from a great distance, really shouldn't qualify to right-thinking people as either "grotesque" or "totally unjustifiable."